


Feathers Were Meant for the Sky

by Arcane_Iridescence



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:59:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcane_Iridescence/pseuds/Arcane_Iridescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>It scared him the first time, and he shied away from it. For a child, purposely standing under where the ball would go was terrifying. The second time, his fingers failed on him and the ball landed on his face. He was glad that it was soft, easy to handle, easy to receive with the nose.<br/></b>
  <br/>
  <b>It was the third time that he finally succeeded. The ball left the receivers and arced toward him. It had been a bit out of bounds, but he looked to the waiting nervous-looking spiker, then back at the ball, raised his arms – <i>straight at first, before he remembered to bend his elbows</i> – and braced himself for when it touched his fingers. And it <i>did,</i> for only for a second, then he sent it toward his teammate. It was imperfect, that first set, but they scored from it and he felt his heart jump into his throat, a warbled sound squeezing out around it. He grinned, deciding that even though the other positions were fun, <i>this</i> one was the best. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Late birthday gift for my favorite setter, the blueberry baby crow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers Were Meant for the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY, TOBIO!!
> 
> I had meant to get this finished before, but I had other things to do, so it just wasn't happening. To be honest, I haven't written in this style in _years_ and I'm still not sure if I like how this turned out, but at the same time I do. So you'll have to be the judge on it. For anyone who knows me, you'll know I prefer detailed styles rather than introspective ones, but it's fun to change things up a bit sometimes. I also used the anime as my reference point because if I needed to clarify something, it would have been a bit ridiculous to try and hunt it down in the manga. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It had always been natural for him. The moment he touched the ball, the moment he felt the surface and traced his tiny fingers against the lines and creases, over the logo, it had felt like that's what he was always meant to do with his hands. It was generic at the time, something just for kids to play with and keep them occupied, give them a chance to grow interest. That ball, that small, soft thing - _nothing_ compared to the real thing - was enough to spark something in his chest. That spark bloomed later, grew into an inferno and nothing less as his interest changed to love and borderline obsession. The passion left him holding his breath as his fingers tightened around the ball in his hands, fingers pressing into the padded surface.

Gym became something he looked forward to, especially the times played more, learned the positions, were taught proper form. It was all just to teach and inform them about it, to keep them active and give them something to do, but he nearly vibrated as he sat around with his classmates, memorizing every word his teacher told them about the sport.

And then he was given the chance to _play_ , and the passion nearly knocked him off his feet. They were taught under-hand serves at first. Easy to hit and clear the net, easy for his classmates to receive. They were given a training ball, big and soft, with a lot of bounce. 

He started serving first, moved to learning more back-court receives, learned to block when he was in front of the net, learned to spike, and then– 

then he learned to _set_.

_Don't use your palms._

_Put strength in your fingers._

_Cushion the fall for better control._

_Don't just hit it._

_Bend your elbows._

It scared him the first time, and he shied away from it. For a child, purposely standing under where the ball would go was terrifying. The second time, his fingers failed on him and the ball landed on his face. He was glad that it was soft, easy to handle, easy to receive with the nose. 

It was the third time that he finally succeeded. The ball left the receivers and arced toward him. It had been a bit out of bounds, but he looked to the waiting nervous-looking spiker, then back at the ball, raised his arms – _straight at first, before he remembered to bend his_ _elbows_ – and braced himself for when it touched his fingers. And it _did_ , for only for a second, then he sent it toward his teammate. It was imperfect, that first set, but they scored from it and he felt his heart jump into his throat, a warbled sound squeezing out around it. He grinned, deciding that even though the other positions were fun, _this_ one was the best. 

From then on, every game he watched, every team he saw play, he watched the setter, watched them arc back or lean forward, controlling the course of the game just by tossing the ball. And so he practiced doing the same, had his mom toss the ball in the air for him to set to an imaginary spiker. He learned that control, learned to use that power, letting his hands and his eyes move his body into place like it’s as simple as breathing. And it _is_.

The winter before the start of middle school, he gets a real volleyball for his birthday. Not a generic brand or a soft training ball, but the kind they used in the games he'd watch on tv, that the setters he'd watch so closely used. It hurt his fingers at first, heavy and hard, but when he adjusted to it and he grew accustomed to the heft of it, the pain faded and was replaced with exhilaration. 

When he enters middle school, he joins the volleyball club and is absolutely _floored_ by the team’s current setter. Oikawa Tooru is everything he's aspired to be. He has amazing control, amazing skill that he hones and strengthens – and most of all, he has an amazing _serve_. Kageyama had always focused on setting, but when he sees his upperclassman serve – _a jump serve at that!_ – he realizes that there are other ways to get points. Kageyama strives to pull off such a powerful and cool-looking serve, but when he asks Oikawa to teach him, he's flat out rejected. 

But like the young, naively innocent child he is, he doesn't understand _why_ and persists. He asks him again and again, each time receiving a firm _no_. Still he continues, until Oikawa lashes out. But even that he doesn't understand. What he does, however, is that the next day, Oikawa says he can't stop him from watching and learning that way. And so he does. He watches his form and how he tosses the ball, how he jumps and hits it, then watches it sail through the air, smacking down on the opposite court with a sound like a gunshot that echoes around the room and inside his ears. 

Oikawa becomes what he aspires to be more than ever, and his admiration for him only continues to grow from then on, and even when they lose their tournament and Oikawa declares him a rival, those feelings don't diminish. He can only think that his upperclassman is very deserving of the award he receives. 

With Oikawa gone, Kageyama takes over as the regular setter, and at first he's nervous, but he watches his teammates, watches the ball, reacts, and gives them proper sets. As he adjusts to his position, his skills get better as well. Power and control come easily to him, always as easy as breathing. He practices the jump-serve after everyone else is gone, and then more at home when he's kicked out of the gym. It's imperfect just yet, not something to use in a real match, but he's determined to master it. 

Oikawa visits them once or twice with Iwaizumi, and he compliments Kageyama on his skills – though it's only later when he reflects on the memory that he realizes Oikawa might not have been being _nice_ to him after all.

But it's during those years in middle school that he learns he's what people call a “ _genius_ ,” and that what they don't understand, they _reject_. 

And they don't understand him. 

So in turn, he's rejected. 

He realizes later that maybe he was just as at fault, but for a child with little to no social skills as it was, he couldn't see how his teammates wouldn't be able to properly spike his sets, nor why he should have to lower himself to work on their level. They were _capable_ , so why couldn't they _try_? 

And then gradually, the sport he loves and is so passionate about is no longer fun to play. It doesn't occur to him to quit. It was something he was good at, something he excelled at. How could he help it if he had more skill than others? It wasn't something he could change just because those around him saw it as a problem; couldn't they understand that? 

They couldn't. 

_King of the Court_ , they call him. The _dictator_ with the impossible to spike tosses. 

Even _he_ understands what that means – and he _hates_ it. 

He struggles with it, struggles with their inability to _see_ that he can't help himself, and he struggles with the weight of them not trying to see things from _his_ perspective. It makes him snap, makes him angry and it makes his attitude hard, because they don't _try_ and it _hurts_ and he doesn’t know what else to _do_. 

Game after game, they play, they win. But they still don't try to understand that they're not that different. Some games he remembers more than others; a flash of orange and words he speaks too harshly because of wasted ability that is easily envied. 

He remembers a teary declaration and feels something warm in his chest for the first time in a year. It makes his breath catch in his throat, makes his muscles hum in excitement at the challenge – _as long as the boy lived up to his words, of course_. 

Most games he forgets. Others _refuse_ to be forgotten.

The final rejection comes when they abandon him on the court and it _shatters_ that warm feeling easily. It all stings – _his eyes and his chest and the tips of his fingers_. He wants to be on the court, wants to touch the ball. But he's _benched_ because there's no one standing behind him when he sets. 

And that's how his middle school years come to an end. 

It in no way prepares him for what he has to face next. 

He applies to several high schools, each with volleyball on his mind – _always, always volleyball_. And even though he understands rejection – from his “ _team_ ”, from his “ _friends_ ” – it still leaves a bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth when he's denied the ones he knew he could have excelled at. 

Karasuno becomes the best choice, for reasons he doesn't know yet. At first he applies because of the coach, but even when that doesn't come to be, he _stays_ because of other reasons. 

_And then_ -

Hinata Shouyou doesn't change much in the time since they last saw each other. He thinks that Kageyama doesn't recognize him, but he _does_. He remembers his natural ability, his reflexes, his stamina, and he remembers a shadow of that warmth, like an ashy residue after a fire has died down to coals. 

But as it turns out, the embers are still glowing. 

They're barred from the gym, at first, but Hinata, despite how aggravating his wasted ability is, has the same desire to stand on the court. It soothes down his bristling enough that he decides to work with him. He's honest when he says he'd rather receive, set and then spike all by himself, but he agrees to work with him. They practice in the park, and it only confirms the thought that Hinata is still the same as when he was in middle school with a team that he no idea what they were doing. 

" _Friends who were willing to stand with him_ ,” is what Hinata calls them. Kageyama doesn't understand – after all, the only people he could say were close to friends, which they _weren't_ , were teammates.

Look how _that_ turned out. 

But he envies Hinata for that nonetheless. Willing to subject themselves to the potential humiliation for the sake of letting someone taste what it's like to be on the court. And Hinata understands that addiction, he learns, and he thinks that the other’s potential is still salvageable after all. 

Hinata is persistent, and that gives Kageyama hope, the feeling shivering in his cold chest, but it grows as they rally the ball back and forth. It's a record for them, because at the same time he feels hope, it also _scares_ him. Hinata’s determination is unfounded but it's no less dangerous, all sharp edges and solid foundation, refusing to let anyone damage it. 

Kageyama had told him he would set to those who were essential to winning – and so he sets to Hinata. It's not a wasted gesture, and the look on his face – satisfaction, delight, a painful happiness – makes his throat close and his chest tighten. They vow to win, and Kageyama things that they might really have a chance, even against their fellow first years. 

That thought is shaken at its core when he sees Hinata actually _play_ , however. It makes him grind his teeth and snap before he can help himself, the memory and fear from middle school rattling around in the drawer he kept it in, reminding him that it was still there. If he isn’t going to be allowed to play… It isn’t a thought he’s very fond of. 

_King of the Court._

It isn’t a name he can escape. Tsukishima says it with a condescending edge, the words sharp enough to cut and they chip at the armour Kageyama had adorned himself in. It makes him want to bare his teeth and snarl at the blond, but he _doesn't_ , just sharpens his glare and begins to withdraw back into himself, wondering why he ever dared to poke his head out to begin with. 

And then Hinata speaks, and Kageyama stares. The game continues and Hinata still sucks _so much – how can someone such this badly? –_ but he tries a different angle with him. The other setter – someone kind, someone gentle and patient and so very _different_ from Oikawa – makes a suggestion, and Kageyama decides to make better use of Hinata’s body. And they _do_. 

The volleyball hits the floor with a loud, echoing sound, hits the wall, then bounces a few times before rolling to a stop. They all just stare at it and watch, shocked silent. Kageyama forgets how to breathe during that time. Then there's a flurry of sound and voices, _breathless_ and _surprised_ , questioning what happened and _Hinata, you closed your eyes? Why would you close your eyes, dumbass?!_

But he's _happy_ , unbelievably so, painfully so. The set that came natural to him, the power and control that had earned him the nickname of King of the Court, the one none of his other teammates could touch – Hinata had _spiked_. He can feel the hair stand up on his body stand up and excitement boil hot in his veins, elation flashing white-hot alongside it. Finally, _finally!_

The next few attempts don't work out as well as either of them would like, but Kageyama isn't shaken. It's _fun_. But he doesn't tell them that it was why he couldn't help the grin the made his cheeks ache. The feeling of finding someone who can spike his toss doesn't lessen, no matter how many points they lose while trying to repeat the quick, because he knows it wasn't a fluke and he's determined to prove it. 

And then they do. 

In the end they're allowed to stay in the club, they're not going to get benched, and the relief is enough to leave him breathless again. And it’s a slow process, but Kageyama can feel himself relax around the other members of the volleyball club, feels like he’s actually _part_ of the team. They accept him and his skills and they run with it. He tells Sugawara that he wants to earn his place as a setter, that he doesn’t want to steal his spot of regular out from under him, and it’s true. Suga tells him that he’s relieved to hear it, and Kageyama sighs inwardly. If he hadn’t been accepting of his words, he isn’t sure what he would have done. He wants to get along with them, wants to continue to be accepted. 

Being their teammate turns out to be as addicting as being on the court and he almost bites his tongue more than once trying to speak. Closer and closer they all get, and even when he’s made to be the setter during the practice match against Aoba Jousai – the same one with his former teammates, his former upperclassmen that he admired so much – he surprises them, surprises _himself_ , by being _okay_. He has a solid foundation in his team now, is so acutely aware of them and their support that the trepidation and residual bitterness over his middle school years finds no foothold. 

Oikawa still scares him when he arrives however. Well, maybe he’s more _worried_ than _scared_ , but the feelings are akin to each other as they settle heavily into his stomach like stones that had been sitting in the heart of a fire all day. Kageyama had practiced hard to learn the jump serve, and he was proud of that progress, but it had been a few years since he had seen his former upperclassman. Suddenly that pride shivered as the ball all but cut through the air.

 _Power_. 

_Control_. 

Oikawa Tooru had both and probably wasn’t even _close_ to hitting the ceiling on his abilities. 

It’s terrifying.

They win that practice match by the – _continuing with the crow analogy_ – feathers of their tails. Kageyama is sure that if they really crows in more than just _name_ , they probably would have lost a few, instead of being grazed. But even as they were testing their wings, they are still fundamentally lacking when it came to members. 

It isn’t long before those positions are filled. Hinata continuously volunteers to be the ace, but when he sees Asahi, he _hesitates_ , loses his nerve, and Kageyama doesn’t blame him. He’s strong, with spikes that can knock a person off their feet, even if they _know_ it’s coming. But for Hinata to bulk, it feels _wrong_ and it unsettles Kageyama. 

Hinata is bright and quick and stupid and _infuriating_ and so many other things, but scared should _not_ be one of those things. So Kageyama doesn’t let him shy away from the challenge he faces, he refuses to let him. And maybe he has no right to try and do so – but he _wants_ to, and so he _does_. Hinata responds to his words, his action, and Kageyama can feel that same warmth from the first time they met curl in his chest again. 

The others tease him about what he said – _Ah, youth; I wish I could say things like that –_ and it embarrasses him but he doesn’t regret it, even though the words had left him panting and his throat hoarse – he _doesn’t_ regret them. 

Hinata sticks close to his side on the way home that night, and they separate at the usual place. Everything _should_ be normal, but it _isn’t_ and he isn’t sure in which way, but there’s a different feeling in the air. It isn’t bad and therefor he ignores it. 

Practice continues as normal and he easily forgets it in favour of focusing on their quick and its potentials. He warms up more to his teammates the longer they all spend together, and he learns to trust them more – even Tsukishima, but _especially_ Hinata. They were already almost always together, but now they’re all but attached at the hip. It becomes _strange_ to not have Hinata beside him. When he’s out on weekends without him, he’ll turn and go to tell him something or show him a passage in a magazine and there won’t be anyone there. It leaves him confused. He’s always been on his own. He’s not good with people, not good with talking or communicating, so he never got along with the neighbourhood kids or even classmates because they always thought he was _weird_ or something similar. But they weren’t _mean_ and that was okay for the younger him. Now he has people who are perfectly fine with him being the way he is, and has someone who easily makes up for what he lacks when it comes to social skills. So without him there, he can _feel_ his absence like a physical thing that leaves him frustrated. 

It also brings a stark relief when they’re together again. 

They practice against Nekoma, their old rivals, and it excites him to find a challenge in a team that’s so strong. And even though they don’t win any practice matches, his muscles burn in a good way. They need to hold Hinata back – _where does all that energy come from?; Can’t you see we’re all exhausted?; You know it’s time to leave, right?_ – and he settles down, huffing but still obviously raring to go. It exasperates Kageyama, but he just towels the sweat off his face and says nothing. Instead he thinks about how good the other team is, and how they had started to keep up with the quick after a while. Using it too often might end up being a problem. 

Days pass and then more continue to, and then the tournament is a week before, a few days, the next morning. It makes his body hum in excitement. He remembers his first tournament, the unease and fear, and the anxiety the first time he stepped onto the court. But he’s gotten used to it since, and he’s comfortable in his team’s skills, trusts them, knows they’ll all do what they have to in order to make sure they can play another match. And so he has to do his part as well. 

The moment they step out onto the court, Kageyama realizes that he’s always – _beside him, behind him, shifting his stance to run across the court –_ aware of where Hinata is around him, more so than the other spikers. Tanaka’s presence is loud, but steady; Asahi’s is quiet but sturdy, like bedrock or concrete; Tsukishima is prickly and sharp around the edges, but he’s aware of what he intends to do. Each of them have a unique presence and he watches them from his peripheral vision when he’s preparing to set, always keeping in mind where they’re positioned so he knows where to send his toss.

But Hinata – _bright, cheery Hinata who scares easily and looked ready to piss himself just before the game, the same Hinata who focused so quickly on the game that Kageyama almost got whiplash_ – was hot and he _burned_ his skin and singed his fingertips, like the ball carried residual heat from each touch the other boy made. None of the other players seemed to notice.

Kageyama didn’t _dislike_ it, and if it wasn’t bad, he could ignore it. So he did, much like the change in the air from before. It was placed in a corner in the back of his mind to gather dust until a time, however unlikely, it became relevant.

They win their first match, and Hinata says they get to play another game. Kageyama is confused, at first, until he remembers that Hinata had only played that one game and he had lost, unable to continue to stand on the court. He nods, says that _they won, so they can continue_. His expression becomes so exhilarated that it’s _blinding_ , and Kageyama has to walk away, the other boy trailing after with a skip in his step and a delighted hum on his lips. 

They struggle against their next match – _gets Dateko’s cheer stuck in his head for the rest of the day; it plays constantly, repeated over and over, looping around until he’s sure he’ll dream of it_ – but they win in the end. Hinata makes a friend on the other team and it’s the _least_ surprising thing to happen.

He’s also reminded how amazing Asahi really is. 

Their winning is halted when they get matched against Aoba Jousai, and no matter how much he understands it, it still _stings_ , and it _hurts_ , knowing that they tried their best and were still defeated. But Oikawa is, without any doubt, a very talented player. 

Hinata asks if he wants to sleep over that night. He tells him maybe another time. 

He tells his mom about it when he gets home – _tired, so tired_ – then they watch a movie and he goes to bed without eating dinner. Despite his aching, exhausted body, he can’t fall asleep. He lies awake, staring at the wall while his mind replays that last moment over and over again, each time making him feel the guilt sharper and sharper in his chest. He could have set to someone else, but it had been automatic to set to Hinata. It had felt like the _right_ decision, that their quick might have been the chance they needed. 

But it _wasn’t_. 

He receives a text that night, from Hinata no less, telling him he did a good job. If things were still like they were before, he might have taken it as sarcasm, but the ever-growing guilt in his chest told him it wasn’t. He doesn’t reply to it. 

The next day, things return to how they were. Maybe not _quite_. There’s a heaviness in the air, bitter, self-deprecating words perched under chins, stuck in throats and itching at tongue. Kageyama can tell he’s not the only one feeling guilty – though in his opinion he _should_ be but it was a _team_ effort because _there are_ _six people on the god damn court stop thinking you’re the only one who messed up, BaKageyama, and if we win together then we also fail together that’s why they call it a_ team – but there’s also the feeling of the slate being wiped clear. His skin still itches from crying so hard over their meal the day before, but the tears have dried, the residue washed away in his shower that morning. The third years decide to stick around, and they team sets their sights on next tournament.

Then they learn they’ve been invited to take part in away-games with Nekoma and the teams they practice together with regularly. But before that-

 _Exams_.

Kageyama is sure he can feel his soul ascending to the afterlife at the mention of them. And worse yet, he has to _pass_.

And by some miracle, he _does_. Sort of. 

_It’s only the one._

_Only one remedial lesson._

Hinata stays at his house that night and they pass the time complaining together while eating take-out – his mom isn’t home and he’s _glad_ because the last time she met Hinata she almost _gushed_ over his first actual friend because apparently _teammates don’t count_ ; especially teammates that _leave_ each other on the court – and tossing the volleyball around in the back yard for a bit. Hinata still teases him about that time – and he’s far too fucking _happy_ and it’s embarrassing because he grins and blushes and squints his eyes and hums _and why are you humming stop it, you dumbass_ – but it’s never overboard, never something that makes him regret constantly involving himself with him. They end up sharing a bed because _someone_ – not naming anyone, right, _Hinata? –_ spills water on the spare futon and forcing his guest, no matter how aggravating he can be on more than just _occasion_ , to sleep on the bare floor is beyond even his range of cruelty. 

And he _regrets_ it. 

He _doesn’t_. 

He definitely _does_. 

And that internal conflict is what has him knocking his partner off the bed – onto the bare, cold floor that he had wanted to keep him off the night before but now he wasn’t sleeping so it was _fine_ right? – but it’s Hinata still clinging to him that drags him down on top of him. And _that_ he regrets very painfully as he lets out a string of curses, rolling off the ginger and continuing until he’s on his side, cupping himself and praying that the gods take mercy on him and end his life quickly. It’s easy not to notice how _toned_ Hinata’s legs are from all his biking because one is so focused on the higher points about him – or rather, the lack _of_ – but it’s easy not to see how boney his knees are until one becomes _intimately_ acquainted with one of them. 

Just as Kageyama is ready to give up on any potential future dreams of children, the pain begins to recede and he becomes aware of the fact that the source of his pain has a hand on his shoulder and is apologizing, asking if he’s okay, and _well that’s one way to say good morning_.

Kageyama considers neutering him, but he can’t relax his own body just yet, opting instead to tell him that they shouldn’t make a habit of it. Hinata agrees and helps him up. It’s something to laugh at later, on the way to school, but for the time being, Kageyama is satisfied in sitting quietly on his bed while Hinata showers first. Ten minutes later, his alarm goes off. 

The morning is the colour of liquid gold and he tries not to think of how Hinata had fit nice and perfectly into the curve of his body or how he had put himself there at some point in the night. He also tries not to think of how he smelled like Kageyama’s shampoo and how satisfying that was or how he couldn’t stop grinning at all of it combined. But most of all, he tries not to think about how he was reacting like this to a _teammate_. 

It was – _nice, right? Or was that just how close teammates acted? Don’t be ridiculous, you idiot. It might be because he’s the first person you’ve ever gotten this close to, not to mention the first person who had ever stayed over, even if it’s not the first time. But then why? Why, why, why_ – weird. Probably. Definitely not something to ask Hinata himself about. 

But Hinata is no different when he leaves the shower, asks him if he’s okay and if he can borrow his hairdryer. He tells him he’s fine, and that he can, it was under the sink. Kageyama takes his own shower while Hinata dries his hair, and maybe it’s because of how he woke up – _still on his mind_ – or how he was probably going to smell like him after using his shampoo again – _now also on his mind_ – but he’s almost _painfully_ conscious of the fact that he’s just on the other side of the curtain. 

Soon the dryer is turned off and the door is closed with a click, leaving Kageyama to his confusing thoughts in peace. He showers quickly after that, towelling out his hair when he realizes he didn't bring his clothes with him. It hadn't even crossed his mind that he should have. Sighing, he secures a towel around his waist and returns to his room. Hinata is looking at the books on his shelf – _health, exercise, volleyball and sports magazines, manga, the occasional novel_ – and he looks over when Kageyama walks in. Within seconds he's dropping his eyes, faces turning several shades of red – _Are you okay? You look like you have a fever_ – but he doesn’t miss the way that gaze lingers, can feel it like a physical trail across his skin and he prays his ears haven't changed to match Hinata’s face. 

This was probably a new record for how much regret he's ever felt in such a short amount of time. Was he allowed to go back to sleep – _please say yes please say yes oh heavens please say yes._

Hinata leaves the room without a word and without Kageyama saying anything in turn – and he's _just_ _fine_ with that. He gets dressed quickly, keeping the towel around his shoulders and goes to meet his teammate in the kitchen. They eat cereal for breakfast, talking about what it must be like in Tokyo and what they think the matches are going to be like – _hard probably; look how we did against Nekoma; but it will be fun; yeah; imagine the challenge!; we have to get there first, dumbass; I already know that, BaKageyama_ – and get ready to leave.

They finish their lessons as quickly as they can, being sent off with the call of _good luck_ from their teacher and almost trip over themselves trying to change their shoes, bags slung over their backs. As promised, someone is waiting for them, as promised, and they're on their way to Tokyo. 

But also as promised – _the safety or comfort of the ride cannot be guaranteed –_ they're left to wonder if they’ll arrive in _one_ piece or _several_. 

The trip is long – _too_ long for anxious boys, excited boys, eager boys that want to quickly join their teammates and play volleyball – but he's still sure they've broken some kind of record with how fast they get from Karasuno High School to Tokyo. They lose some of that time getting lost – _these instructions don't make sense; let’s take a shortcut; why don't we just stop for directions or call Takeda-sensei?; no I figured this out; the sun is setting; I'll get you there before nightfall, no worries, no worries; we’re worried._

They arrive, finally, and run for the gym. He's excited and nervous, but when they slam the doors open, the sun is shining behind them and Kageyama thinks they would probably look cool if he didn't have to piss so bad. They play, rest, play some more. It feels good to have his hands touching a volleyball again, and even though they lose more than they win, he _enjoys_ it, until- 

Until he _doesn’t_.

Until Hinata makes a face. 

Until he goes for a ball that _isn’t_ _his_.

Until until _until_ -

Until they fight. 

And it _scares_ him because this is where he found a place to belong, because Karasuno gave him a team that feels like a _team_ , because he found a place beside _Hinata_. And suddenly the concrete he was so sure he had been standing on before is now scree on a mountainside and it’s shifting and giving beneath his feet and he’s falling falling falling – and there’s only darkness when he reaches the cliff edge. They walk home – not _together_ , not this time, not after _that_ fight and _those_ words are spoken – and it’s dark out and his arms sting from scratches Hinata gave him accidentally and his hands _burn_ from how _roughly_ he treated his friend, his _partner_. And the shame claws viciously inside him alongside the molten metal of the pain and fear and _don’t let this be the end don’t let this be rejection_ because he isn’t sure he could handle _that_ after all of _this_. 

He sleeps uneasy that night, tossing, turning, curling and uncurling, fitful and restless. He drifts, in and out, awake and asleep, and his dreams snap at his heels as he tries to run away from the memory of an empty court, abandoned by his “ _teammates_ ” and of _Karasuno_ leaving him alone and _Hinata_ refusing to jump for his tosses. It’s all jumbled and messy, like the pieces of two jarringly different puzzles that fit seamlessly together to create a disorienting image that leaves him waking up several times, panting and sweating and crying from the fear closing his throat. It blocks his cry for help, chokes him with it and leaves him clawing at his chest, his neck his ear his eyes pulling his body apart trying to get it out out _out_

_O u t_

And he jerks _awake_ , rolling off his bed and scrambling, blindly and disoriented, to the window, gasping and clawing at the lock before finally _finally_ managing opening it. The glass rattles a bit as he slams the pane to the side, _heaving_ and _wheezing_ as he draws the cold, damp air into his dry, hot lungs. He chokes on it but he forces it down his tight throat, hears it whistle – or _not_ but he’s sure it _does_ – and tries not to sob as he slides down the wall. He knows he should move away, should dry his sweat, should change his clothes, should take a shower – _should, should should._

He does none of it. He sits awkwardly beneath the cold air coming in, feels it cool against the back of his neck, his shoulders, his lower back – and he sleeps. He doesn’t dream this time and it’s a _mercy_ that he’s infinitely grateful for. In the morning he’s on his bed, wrapped – _cradled_ – beneath blankets and his window is closed. 

His mother is quiet when she makes breakfast and they eat and he understands. He wonders if she got a call that he fought with Hinata or if she just _knew_ even though she came home from work late and he didn’t see her before he went to bed. He wonders if she heard him and he hopes not. She’s always tired from working late and she gets up to take care of her son and see him off before returning to bed for a mere few hours. She’s always moving, always taking care of things, always taking care of _him_ and he doesn’t want to disturb her rest because she _needs_ it. 

He goes out that day and she kisses his forehead, gives him a lingering hug and a soft smile, waves him off. Each step is heavy as he wanders, trying to think – trying to think _clearly_ – trying not to think at all, and then he runs into _him_. _Him_ who he always looked up to, always aspired to be like, always watched – and then _lost_ to. Oikawa is with someone – small, young, very different from his uncle – and maybe that’s why he gives Kageyama a concrete reply – _has his birthday come several months early or was he just being generous?_ – to something he’s near-desperate about. _Beyond_ desperate. 

_Have you given shrimpy the toss he wants? Have you even_ tried _?_

Has he?

_Hasn’t he?_

Coach Ukai calls him later and they meet at the store and Kageyama begins to understand that he _hasn’t_. And so they decide on a new toss – not direct, not the toss that only Hinata could spike – and Kageyama says he’ll do it, that he’ll learn it, that he can pull it off. And he’s sure – not sure at all, very sure, not, is, not is not _is not_ – he’ll succeed. Takeda-sensei helps him – throws the ball up over his head for him to set – and he gets used to the feeling of the new toss. 

Hinata doesn’t speak to him and he doesn’t speak to Hinata and they don’t speak to _each other_. He can feel the air between them snarl, baring sharp fangs and sharper claws, bristling with a dangerous kind of heat – the one that frays at the braided cords of bonds between people until they _snap_ – and hunched shoulders. It’s a beast that scares Kageyama – _is this the end will Hinata leave me am I going to be alone Hinata Hinata Hinata –_ and in a moment of hesitation, he turns his back on it, looks away long enough for it to lunge.

It’s the worst thing he could do. 

Hinata is the one that snaps at him – not the _beast_ because the _beast_ has no power to lay into him but _Hinata_ does – and the others on their team, from the Tokyo teams, stop and watch him huff and stare at him with frenzied eyes. _Hinata_ is the one to bare fangs this time, and so Kageyama bares his own in return until – _that wasn’t the falling toss just now_ – and he realizes that it _wasn’t_. Tanaka pulls Hinata away and Kageyama retreats into himself – _thinking, thinking, giving himself a headache_ – but they’ll keep trying the next day. 

Kageyama practices alone that night, dismisses Hinata who goes and finds another setter – _not permanent, not permanent, not permanent_ – and then runs to find another person to practice with when Kenma doesn’t do more. Kageyama focuses – _tries to_ – but each time the ball leaves his fingers, he knows that _something_ is off and it _is_ , each time landing _not_ where it’s supposed to. 

_Picture the spiker_ – and it should be an obvious thing to do but he _didn’t_ and then he _does_ and the bottle falls beneath the volleyball. And he can feel something in his chest flutter because finally, _finally_ he can start getting results for his efforts. Hinata pesters him for the toss – has been, several times and it’s what little interaction they get between each other – but he wants to get better at it, wants to _perfect_ it so they don’t keep missing. He wants them to be in sync again. 

_Are you not going to do it?_

They had been doing so good – as a _team_ , as _individuals_ – and he doesn’t want to ruin it with a bad toss. But his body moves on its own, sending the ball to Hinata, to where he’s already in position, in the air, off the ground. He watches it spin, over and over and over and then – right where it need to, it stops. Hinata’s hand makes contact and the time between it leaving him and hitting the floor doesn’t seem long at all – _was there even any time at all?_ The sound reverberates in the air, in the floor, and Kageyama can feel it in the soles of his shoes, in his bones, as if he spiked it himself. 

He looks at Hinata and time seems to stop for a moment and he takes him in. He’s just as shocked, but he can see the oncoming excitement, and the light in his eyes gets brighter and Kageyama’s breath catches in his throat, but it isn’t like when he had his nightmare. Hinata makes an elated sound – a _shout_ , a _yell_ – and Kageyama echoes it. The breath rushes out of him as the full realization crashes down on him and he yells at Hinata, and the other is just as breathless as he responds, his words falling from his lips in a rush, bubbly and almost too quick to catch like he can’t get them out fast enough. And then-

_You really are amazing, Kageyama._

He forgets how to _breathe_. He forgets how to _think_. He forgets how to _function_. He tries to reply – _tries and cosmically, comically fails_ – but the words are rough on his stiff tongue. Hinata bounces and everything about him is so sincere that it makes Kageyama dizzy. They return to the game, but they can’t repeat the quick. He can’t concentrate after what his friend said, after the exhilaration of the successful attempt before, after Yachi cheering them on – so happy, so ecstatic, one would think she had done the quick herself – and after his realization that it was going to be okay now, that Hinata _wouldn’t_ abandon him on the court, that he was still willing to jump before Kageyama even touched the ball. It relaxes him. 

It still isn’t enough to make the next go a success. But it isn’t their only new weapon and the other spikers move forward, and he makes a quick decision of who the ball will go to. It hits the floor on the other side of the net. Stronger and stronger, more and more, attack and block. They’ve created an arsenal for themselves, and now they hone those weapons, make the dull edges sharper, hammering out the dents and forging them into things that are _other_ , testing them against fire and the feathers of the owls across from them. 

They still lose. 

Kageyama doesn’t think much of it, too busy downing the contents of the bottle in his hands. The matches end and they do private practice. He follows Hinata to the door, sighs into the small breeze that brushes against his skin, cooling him down just enough for his shoulders to loosen. Neither says anything for a bit and neither apologizes or speaks of their fight and the silence or – _should he say something, maybe he should, it was partially his fault, he really should-_

And he _does_ , but it’s not the apology he intended it to be. It’s a complaint, that if their quick worked better, if if if- 

Hinata dismisses the failure, because _they could fight now_ and Kageyama looks at him in surprise, watches him reach toward the sun, the sky, the clouds – the place where crows fly. His heartbeat changes rhythm – _stutters, jumps, skips and makes him catch his breath –_ and he tells him it depends on his tosses, hunching his shoulders to cover up what’s happening inside his chest. Whatever it is. 

Hinata turns and walks away, throwing a casual _if it’s you, you can do it_ over his shoulder, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s stupid for thinking otherwise, like the thought should never have crossed his mind. And he argues back because that’s what he does, that’s what _they_ do and he can hear Yamaguchi laughing at them but he doesn’t care. He’s happy. He’s so happy it hurts and the fear has all but melted away now because he _knows_ Hinata isn’t going to leave him. 

Hinata is going to stay by his side. 

Hinata and the rest of Karasuno. 

They practice until they can’t, and by then they’re being told to go wash up, that it was time to eat. They’re ravenous and the smell is intoxicating – _meat, meat, so much meat, everywhere they looked was meat_ – and it’s hard to keep his saliva _inside_ his mouth and not all over his lips and his chin. He wipes his hand across his face more than once. And then they’re told to dig in and they _do_ , all of them, and there’s very little talking at first – too busy shoveling food into their mouths and he can’t breathe and _there’s_ _food stuck in his throat and this was how he was going to go out and it was ridiculous and they finally pulled off the quick and holy shit he was going to d i e!_ – but as stomachs are filled, conversation picks up. He drifts around – sometimes with Hinata, sometimes _not_ but always knowing where he is, always conscious of where he’s moving to and the distance between them – and he gets to know Akaashi, thanks him for the water. He’s not _good_ with people, even now, but they know that, know him, and they make it easier for him. _Akaashi_ makes it easier – quiet, soft-spoken, doesn’t feel the need to constantly speak unlike _some_ but not awkward either, easy to be around – and he stays near him for a while before they drift apart, pulled in different directions, to different conversations. 

Then, just like that, their time comes to an end and it’s time to leave. He’s sad, they all are, but there’s a determination to the teams gathered, to the players. Determination to meet in Tokyo, to meet on the opposite sides of the court in an official match, and they’re determined to work to get to that point. All of them. 

Karasuno has a long way to go first. 

He stays near Hinata again, doesn’t feel the beast that had stood between them ready to attack him any longer, it’s presence dissipating like mist in the morning sun. And like the morning sun, it’s warm now, not blistering. It lulls him to sleep, leaves him relaxed down to his bones like the way a bath after a good day of practice would. The night creeps up and he can feel Hinata’s head against his shoulder, feels his own come to rest on to of the other’s. 

_Hinata’s hair smells nice._

The night after they return, Hinata stays over again. Kageyama’s mother is ecstatic. She keeps it off her face, but he can see it in her eyes, see it in the way her fingers curl and uncurl in her blouse, smooth over her pants, drum against the counter while she makes them dinner. He can hear her hum as he leads Hinata down the hall to his room, tells him to drop his bag wherever, drops himself down on the bed and leans back on his hands. He can hear her hum as Hinata puts his stuff down near the desk and fidgets, mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to speak but can’t find the words, and he can hear her when he asks his friend if he wants anything to drink and when Hinata responds with silence and stumbled steps toward him. 

He can hear her hum as Hinata kisses him. 

There were many times that he has forgotten how to breathe, and only once has not involved Hinata – though _forgetting_ and being _unable_ to are _different_ and that should be noted as important for future reference – but this time does involve him. And it’s more than he forgets _how_ to and more he forgets he _needs_ to, that it’s _important_. But what could be more important than the fact that Hinata is _kissing him_ , or that his hands are sweaty against his cheeks, or that he’s pushing them off balance and they’re falling into an awkward position on his bed?

Nothing. 

_Nothing_. 

Nothing could be more important and that was the simple, obvious answer. A fact, like stating the sky was blue when the sun was shining at noon and there were no clouds in sight.

And he was _okay_ with that. 

But what he _wasn’t_ okay with was Hinata’s knee digging into his hip and giving him phantom pains of the last time he had gotten close to _that_ area with _that_ body part. Hinata moves away though because the kiss is broken and they’re just staring at each other and Hinata is almost _straddling_ him. He kind of wants him to return and that surprises him. Hinata is flushed and staring at the ground, shifting his weight and fiddling with the hem of his shirt, rolling it between his white-knuckled fingers and squeezing the material enough that he might wring a tear into it. 

There’s silence. And then there’s noise.

_What was that-_

_A kiss-_

_I know that but-_

_I should have asked first-_

_Where did that come from-_

_I couldn’t help it-_

_Friends don’t do that-_

_I’m sorry-_

_I’m not-_

Silence again. And it stretches longer this time as they stare at each other, faces growing redder and redder and he thinks he might start _steaming_ from how hot his cheeks feel. He doesn’t take the words back. 

_I’m not_ he repeats.

And it’s _true_ and he thinks that he’s feeling a lot more courage that he ought to in this situation but it’s painfully, undeniably _true_. It names the thing that had been growing between them, the one that made his heart skip and his breath catch and his mind always aware of where Hinata was. It was the same one he had written off for affection toward his friend – _first friend, first best friend, first person he could say he had gotten_ close _to_ – but was different from his other friends, his other teammates. _It’s because you’re closer to him, because you’re always with him and he can hit your toss and he’s your partner and you work with him the most_ but it’s _not_ that, and it’s _not_ that simple.

And he’s _not_ sorry for it. 

Hinata stares at him and his face is indescribable to Kageyama, though that might be because he’s bad with words like he’s bad with people – and the two might not be mutually exclusive and right now they probably _aren’t_ but he thinks they _should_ be. So he doesn’t _try_ to describe it, doesn’t _try_ to do anything but stand, curl his hands into fists and face Hinata straight on because that’s what he knows how to do. He’s never been in this situation before and Hinata is still staring and he’s starting to worry about the boy across from him but he just does what he _can_ because what _else_ can he do? And then Hinata smiles, and he squints his eyes and he blushes and he makes the face he made when Kageyama gave him that first toss months before, but it’s more intense this time, more emotional and it leaves Kageyama _breathless_ because Hinata is _stunning_ in that moment and he’s captivated.

 _Then I’m not either_.

They don’t kiss again – _not yet, not for a while_ – but they sit on the bed and they talk – _about nothing and everything and then nothing again_ – and Kageyama can no longer hear his mother humming but he can hear the creak in the hall flooring – _just that one spot; no other spot is like that_ – and he chooses not to think about what that means. When they’re called to dinner, she has a calmer energy as they set the table and he watches her. She seems happy – _the warm kind that makes your chest feel too small and your throat tighten but you smile and grin because things are okay and the world is right, even if only for that moment_ – and he _knows_ that _she_ knows about what happened that short hour before. 

They eat and they sleep and they wake up and they still don’t kiss again, and they play volleyball and they meet their team. They watch the sky and the crows that take flight and drop feathers that catch the soft morning light as they float back down to earth. 

They pass the days like that, counting down until it’s time for the preliminaries and then they begin to count _up_ because they win and win and win and they refuse to stop. Not yet. Not until they are without a doubt _defeated_ and they refuse to be _grounded_ with clipped wings any longer. So like the crows they are-

They _fly_. 

And they don’t stop.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always interested in feedback, so please leave a review if you can. Also, I have several other fics that I'm working on - as some of you know - and if you check my tumblr (usagihawi), then you'll find that each fic that I'm planning to write or am already writing has it's own tag.  
> Ex: fic: feathers were meant for the sky  
> or  
> fic: embers in the ashes
> 
> Look forward to whatever's next!


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